The Curse of Blood
by andiyar
Summary: Britain is crushed by the rule of the High Lord, his servants persecute Wizards and Muggles alike. The darkness seems absolute. But hope will now blossom, as four intertwined souls set their feet on the road to redemption, and the defeat of the High Lord.


_**Prologue: Flames**_   
  
Flickering shadows danced on the timber walls of the chamber, the wind swirling down the stone chimney causing the flames to leap about in the grate, consuming the logs within. The warmth of the fire radiated out into the small room, washing over the face of the boy sprawled in an armchair, breathing softly.   
  
Beside him, an untidy stack of parchment fluttered in the gusts from the chimney, moving slightly across the small table on which they sat, crammed with books and scrolls. Underneath the boy's feet, the vivid green carpet shifted as he moved restlessly, sliding along the dark timber floorboards.   
  
"No," he mumbled, "stop..." His head shook, eyelids fluttering in the wavering firelight. "Please... stop. Don't...."   
  
A blast of wind down the chimney swirled the flames higher, sending several parchments flying off the table, sending them soaring through the room. One struck the boy on the face, and with a muffled yell he started awake, clutching it as if it was attacking him, panting with fear. He began to breath calmly as he took in his surroundings, his hands loosening their grip on the piece of parchment.   
  
"It... it was only a dream," he whispered. The fire crackled as if in agreement. "He... he isn't real."   
  
The boy stood, his movements slow, and gathered the scattered parchments around the chamber, then placed them on the table and dropped a heavy book on top of them. The edges of the trapped parchment fluttered wildly, but the book prevented their further escape. The boy looked at the small high window behind his chair and shivered, the memory of his dream scattering his thoughts as he saw the bright moonlight shining through the rippled glass.   
  
"Maybe... maybe Father is home," he murmured, shaking slightly in remembered fear. "Maybe he's awake." The boy lifted a heavy robe from the back of the armchair and pulled it on, then picked up the slippers he had dropped before the fire and put them on, then walked over to the door. He opened it carefully then stepped out into the hallway beyond. Most of the torches had gone out, leaving a few dark shadows strewn across the corridor. The boy padded towards the staircase at the front of the house, his feet squeaking as he walked over the older floorboards.   
  
At the head of the stairs, the boy stopped, shivering as his feet touched the marble of the top step. He stared out through the huge windows on the landing beyond the staircase and jumped in shock. On the drive he could see bobbing lights, dozens of lights, as if a crowd of people bearing torches were approaching the manor. He squinted and saw the torchlight winking back, reflected of something. Something metallic. He trembled. Some of the people approaching had weapons...   
  
Spinning, the boy gathered his breath to scream a warning but froze as a hand was placed over his mouth, and a soft voice whispered, "Shhh, child."   
  
"M-mother?" he whispered, as she took her hand away from his mouth and drew him back into the shadows of the hallway. "What... what's happening? Who are those men?"   
  
His mother looked at him, her eyes shining in the soft light of the moon. "No time to explain, Godric! Quickly, run to the back stairs, they haven't gone around the house yet. Francis is waiting by the back door with your boots and a cloak. Hide in the forest. I'll join you there as soon as I can."   
  
"But-" Godric began, but his mother spun him and pushed him towards the back of the house, towards the servant's stairs.   
  
"Run!"   
  
Godric gave her a fierce hug, and then dashed down the corridor. Reaching the head of the back stairs, he turned and saw his mother watching him. She smiled at him, then turned away and started down the main staircase. Towards the men. Godric swallowed, then dashed down the back stairs as quickly as he could, leaping two, three, even four steps at a time.   
  
"I must get away!"

* * *

Elara watched her son run and sighed, before making her way down the marble staircase to the entry hall of the manor. All of the servants were crowded there, several peeping out of the windows in fear as they watched the mob approach. As they caught sight of her they bowed and curtsied, trying not to show fear on their faces before their Lady.   
  
"Go, now," she commanded them. "Escape while you can. Run and hide, in the fields, in the forest, but do not stay and wait!"   
  
"But my lady," one of the cooks objected, "What of you? We cannot leave you here!"   
  
Elara smiled, then her face firmed. "You will do as I have ordered. Now is not the time to argue."   
  
The cook bobbed a quick curtsy, then turned and ran for the kitchen, seeking the side door of the house. The other servants followed her, some sneaking sad looks at Elara as they ran, but none questioned her order. Elara sighed. They knew, as did she, what had to be done.   
  
Gathering herself, Elara opened the door and walked onto the porch outside, then stepped lightly down the three marble stairs and walked purposefully out onto the drive. As the mob caught sight of her, several ran forward to capture her. Elara made no move to resist as she was urged forward, she merely walked with her head held high, refusing to acknowledge those who were now her captors.   
  
One of the men stepped forward from the mob now, his eyes fastened on hers like burning coals. He was wearing black, all black except for a white collar around his neck, and his face was filled with loathing.   
  
"So, witch, have you come to give yourself up?" he demanded, his breathing fast, excited.   
  
"I have come to determine why you are on my husband's land," Elara replied, her voice calm. "You are trespassing on the property of your master, and if you do not leave immediately, he will see you hanged as soon as he returns from London."   
  
"We are doing the Lord's work!" the man snarled, tugging at his collar. "As a priest of the Lord, I am here to root out this nest of devil spawn, and cleanse this land of witchcraft!"   
  
Elara kept her face smooth as he heart raced. _Can it be that he knows? What can I do? Tarion is not here, and Godric... Sweet Heaven, Godric!_   
  
The priest smirked at her silence, his eyes still burning in the torchlight. "No clever remarks now, witch? Yes, the people here know the truth ¨C and they have chosen the right way! They have said no to witches and their brood!"   
  
The priest gestured behind him, and several of the men came forward, forcing other captives to walk before them. Elara stifled a cry as she saw her servants, all that she had bid flee, tied and haltered like animals.   
  
_But they do not have Godric, or Francis_, she thought, slightly relieved, _at least they escaped._   
  
The priest nodded in grim satisfaction at the recognition on her face. "Yes, witch. We caught your servants trying to escape. We know who they are, your assistants, your familiars! Tonight you shall all suffer the penalty for witchcraft! Take them!"   
  
Elara reeled in shock, almost falling as she was swept up and dragged to the house by two of the men. The other servants were dragged along with her, and she saw then the circle of men with torches, surrounding the manor, watching all of the doors.   
  
The men carried her over the steps and porch then took her inside, into the entryway and left her lying on the mahogany floor at the foot of the stairs. Her servants were laid around her, bound and tied hand and foot, then her hands and feet were lashed together with ropes, preventing her from moving an inch. The men left swiftly as the priest entered the manor, and he looked around with disgust, then motioned to several men standing on the porch, carrying sealed jars. They fanned out through the house, and the priest picked up a jar from outside, then began to pour it out over Elara and her servants, and coating the floorboards. Elara screamed then, as she smelt the thick odour of oil.   
  
"Yes, witch," the priest breathed as he threw the empty jar aside, shattering it on the stairs. "You and yours will pay now, your souls will be purified in fire. Come!" he shouted to the men in the house, and they returned, trooping out of the main door, leaving the priest alone with the tied captives. He looked into Elara's eyes, and smiled once more, before turning and walking out of the door.   
  
Around Elara, her servants were screaming and crying, but her throat had seized, she couldn't make a sound. She couldn't believe this was happening, that she would never see Tarion again, never see Godric again...   
  
Outside, she heard the priest speak, his voice cutting through the screams of her servants.   
  
"Let this house be cleansed in flame, in the name of the Father, his Son and the Holy Ghost! Burn them all!"   
  
Elara found her voice and screamed anew as torches were hurled through the open door, the oil bursting into flames, the wooden floor erupting she screamed, her flesh ablaze, around her servants screaming as they burned, until the smoke grew too thick to bear and she lapsed at last into blessed unconsciousness, free from pain as the world dissolved in flame...

* * *

The rim of the decanter clinked as the man poured the wine into a crystal goblet, watching it sparkle, gleaming in the light of the candles on the table. A smile flickered across his face as he watched the liquid slowly fill the goblet. So like blood...   
  
Replacing the decanter, he picked up the goblet and savoured the aroma of the wine as he paced the room, his movements slow as he raised the goblet to his lips and took a mouthful of the drink, allowing it to settle on his palate before swallowing. Stopping, he turned and faced the portrait hanging over the mantelpiece, an old man, dressed in green velvet with emerald trimmings,. He toasted the picture with his goblet.   
  
"As you dreamed, so shall it be, uncle," the man murmured, then quickly drank the remainder of the wine in the goblet. With a nonchalant gesture he hurled the glass over his shoulder, the sound of breaking crystal echoing behind him as he strode from the room, along a stone corridor to a wide entrance hall, roofed in oak beams with a huge chandelier hanging from the roof, made entirely of emerald.   
  
Two of his aides stood underneath the chandelier and snapped to attention as they saw him enter the room. He waved them to ease, then gestured to them to follow as he walked through an archway set in the side of the hall, leading into a small audience chamber. He made his way to a large chair set at the far wall and sat down, facing his aides who bowed again before him and then straightened, awaiting his pleasure.   
  
The man steepled his fingers and looked over them, then spoke softly.   
  
"Report."   
  
The aide to his right nodded his head, then began to speak, his voice calm, unhurried.   
  
"The captive has been taken to the Isle. The guards were most happy to receive another prisoner, and he has been placed under strict supervision. It is unlikely that he will survive for long."   
  
The man smiled. "Excellent. And the woman and child?"   
  
"Dead, my lord. Burned alive, with all of their servants," replied his other aide, his face smooth.   
  
"Was the _priest_ certain?" the lord hissed. "There can be no mistakes, not now."   
  
The man swallowed. "My lord, he had the house surrounded and captured all who tried to escape. They were all burned within the house, and the manor itself is a shattered shell. He assured me that noone survived."   
  
"Excellent," the lord whispered, then smiled toothily before dismissing his two aides. They bowed before walking away from the room, their steps relieved. No matter, the lord mused. They were reliable nonetheless.   
  
"At last," he chortled to himself, springing to his feet, his face a mask of glee. "With the Muggle woman dead and the half-blood burned, he will have to see reason! And if he does not, the Isle will still be there, and he is no threat unhinged. Slave or madman, he cannot stop me now!"   
  
Striding from the audience chamber, the lord climbed back up the stairs to his study and poured another goblet of wine, then again saluted his uncle's portrait. His eyes were wide with triumph, and a grin was on his face.   
  
"The last obstacles are gone, Uncle. Our house will at last reign supreme!" 


End file.
